


Leave Me Out With The Waste, This Is Not What I Do

by loudle



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:58:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loudle/pseuds/loudle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis has two problems. One of them is alcohol, subsequent to the other: loving Harry.<br/>Harry's only problem is that he keeps leaving the door open for Louis to come back home. He barely ever does.</p><p>~based on the song "9 Crimes" by Damien Rice~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Take a deep breath in.  
His ribs felt tight against his lungs, like birdcages in his chest, or maybe roots of a tree, twisting tight around his vital organs, slowly squeezing the life out of him.  
Count to 10, and exhale.  
As the breath escaped his lips, he wasn't quite sure why he was following this technique to clear his thoughts. Why would he want a clear mind? So he could think more in depth as to why he was alone in a bed made for two? So he could count the hours since the last time he didn't feel like he was waiting for a storm to pass him by? So he could clear the clouds from his mind, only to look up at the sky, and see darkness overhead?  
Louis brought darkness. Even though he could bring all the light in the world if he wished to do so, he always opted to shut the blinds and close the curtains, and Harry never understood why. Then again, there were a lot of things Harry could never bring himself to understand about Louis. He was there, but not completely present. His smiles were tight when directed at Harry, his laughs always sounded broken down, like a scratched record, he hardly ever kissed him, yet he fucked him like he loved him. That was just it. It was always like he loved him, but it used to be because he loved him.  
He wouldn't be around for awhile, and then one night he'd come home, and sometimes he was sober, but more often than not he wasn't. While he was around, he would make all sorts of promises to Harry; all promises Harry was well-aware he could never keep.  
He would swoop in, building up false hope in Harry's chest ('I do love you, Harry, of course I love you') with liquor on his tongue, and Harry would give in every single time, because this was Louis. Louis Tomlinson, the unofficial leader, that led Harry right down this dead end street. Lou, the lover that kissed Harry's tears and worst nightmares away, and even with whiskey heavy on his breath, it was the only time Harry ever felt loved. The stranger; the one that left Harry alone in bed at night. All that remained of him when Harry awoke at 3:47 am was his indentation in the sheets, and the arrow stuck in the left side of Harry's chest.  
It wasn't always like this. There was once a time when Harry was 16 and Louis was 18 going on 19, and they still had sparkling eyes and sincere smiles that didn't need shots as fuel. It was a time of simplicity and grace, where thin bubblegum lips could press against plump cherry without the influence of the devil's water to make it easier. It was a time of happiness, but Louis wasn't happy anymore. Never did he sleep- all he could do was think. That's why he started drinking, in the first place. He thought much too much, and felt a little too intensely, and when he drank, he didn't have to think or feel a thing. Anything he did or said was incoherent, and anything he felt was forgotten the next day.  
It was a life that lacked where feeling used to pile so high he was afraid it would topple over and crush him, like the way Harry's arms wrapped around him would cause him to crumple like a leaf, just not quite as pleasant.  
He missed Harry's arms as an anchor, pulling him back to the docks from the wide open sea. He missed chaste kisses sprinkled over his body from the plush lips of the human china doll, but what was he to do? Harry would be better off without him. Even drunk Louis knew that.  
So why did he keep knocking on the door at midnight, asking for forgiveness, just to run away again? Was it because he knew that Harry could never turn him away? Or maybe he was quietly hoping to see another pair of shoes by the door, another coat hanging on the rack, or maybe even hear someone asking Harry who was at the door, calling him 'babe,' and all. Maybe that would be the straw that broke the camel's back; it would certainly give him a reason to end it all, wouldn't it? Drunk Louis thought it would. Sober Louis knew.  
But you can't stop yourself from loving someone; Louis knew this all too well, because he tried. He would go to a club or a bar, pick up some random bloke, and go back to his. He'd fuck him, but it never quite hit the mark. He was either too short, too muscular, too tan, too blonde, and really, not enough like Harry Styles.  
When he had his fingers laced through auburn hair, it felt like wool in comparison to the dark chocolate silk that was sewn to a certain boy's head, and when he looked into dark brown eyes, he wanted to be sick, because they weren't green, and they weren't looking at him like he was a work of art, they were sizing him up like he was a piece of meat. When large hands grabbed and probed at his skin, he wanted to cry, and sometimes he actually did, because although these hands were big and calloused, they weren't Harry's hands; the men Louis ended up with were never gentle and loving like Harry. Sometimes, that made him want to die.

☾

Louis crept into the flat as quietly as he possibly could, closing the door silently behind him. Maybe Harry was still asleep, and wouldn't even know he was ever here. Maybe he would never even-  
"Lou?"  
Shit.  
Louis turned around from where he faced the door, and there was Harry across the room, joggers hanging low on his small hips, no shirt on his muscular frame. Openly, Louis allowed his eyes to rake up and down the sight before him, taking in every curve and niche on his lean body. His eyes glided over all the tattoos inked into his flesh with black lace to contrast the milky porcelain of his skin; all the tattoos that were meant for him.  
"I'm- Hi, Harry," he spoke softly, sounding unsure of himself with the hesitant smile on his lips.  
"Where were you?" he looked like a forlorn puppy, and all Louis wanted to do was gather him up into his arms and kiss away the sadness in his eyes.  
But he didn't. He never did; not anymore.  
"I-.. I don't quite know, actually," he admitted quietly, averting his eyes to avoid the empty gaze that Harry had locked on him.  
"You don't know?" Harry asked softly, and Louis shook his head. He really wished he could be anywhere but here, because God, he never wanted to cause Harry pain; that was never his intention. He just wanted to set him free, because Harry was a bird, and Louis couldn't keep him locked away in a birdcage forever- sparrows were made to fly. "You were here, for awhile," Harry said in that slow as molasses voice, the rumbling reaching Louis' chest. In Harry's voice, he could hear his heart breaking, and that killed Louis inside a little bit more. There was a pregnant pause in the somewhat-conversation. Neither said anything out loud, while a million accusations and no excuses floated through the thick air, hand-in-hand with silence.  
"I'm thirsty," he said finally, walking around Harry to get into the kitchen. "Do you want anything, Harry?"  
"Louis, that's the liquor cabinet," he said from the doorway, watching Louis with pure sadness laced into the green of his eyes, eyebrows knit together in something like concern.  
"I know," Louis said, looking over at him with the best smile he could possibly plaster onto his face without letting on that he wanted to die. Maybe he should've been an actor; he was an expert at forcing smiles spread too thin and creating false crinkles around his eyes.  
"It's 9 in the morning," Harry almost pleaded with him. Whenever they spoke, it was almost as if there was a sheet of glass between them, that would shatter if their volume was anything more than a whisper. It could've been that Louis had a permanent headache, and if they spoke too loud, the voices inside of him would get even louder to compete with the noise on the outside, and his head would finally just explode.  
That's why he needed a drink- so he could talk to Harry without the constant reminder that he was fucked up, and he was dragging Harry down with him. If he was drunk, he didn't have to think about it.  
"Yeah, I s'pose it is," he mumbled, glancing at the clock on the stove that was never used, and it read 9:03. "It's happy hour somewhere in the world, yeah?" Was it sick that he was making a joke out of this? Out of all the sleepless nights that Harry had waited up for him, evident in the bags and dark circles under his eyes, was it twisted to make light of the whiskey he was reaching for?  
"Louis, can I ask you something?" rumbled the soft, deep voice from the doorway of the kitchen. Louis retracted his hand from where his fingertips brushed a crystal bottle sitting on the shelf to turn around and look at Harry. The porcelain doll seemed to be cracking, the sparkling green marbles he used as eyes gone dull and gray. He was looking at something beyond Louis, not quite meeting his eye when he said, "Why do you need to be drunk to love me?"  
There was a long silence, filled with Louis looking at Harry with an open mouth but no words being released, and Harry staring beyond him with a million questions gone unanswered. There was so much that Louis wanted to say, but how could he respond? Of course Harry thought he hated him, because he wouldn't let himself love. He was saving Harry; why couldn't he understand that? Why couldn't he explain it to him? How could he stand here with a slack jaw and weak knees when this was his chance to have it all make sense?  
Harry shook his head, trembling laughter falling from between his lips, not quite sitting well as he avoided Louis' glance. "M'sorry. Go ahead, Louis. It doesn't matter, anymore," he mumbled, the words tasting bitter on his tongue, lies heavy in his mouth. It did matter, just not to Louis. "M'gonna go back to bed. Just-.. Yeah. Maybe leave a note telling me where you are when you aren't here when I wake up?" He didn't say 'if', because he knew that when he woke, it would be to an empty house- the only one answering him being his echo that bounced through the desolate rooms and ricocheted back to him.  
"Harry-"  
"It's fine, Lou. I just really wish I could know where you are sometimes, you know?" he spoke nonchalantly, as if this were nothing, but there was something else lurking beneath the easy-going mask he always wore to hide what he held inside. "I worry, yeah?"  
"Harry, I-"  
"Stay as long as you want; it is your flat too, isn't it? Well was, really. You're never here anymore, so it's really just mine," he shrugged, "Oh well. Your name is on the lease, so stay however long you like. I'm going back to bed."  
"Harry-"  
"It's fine, Louis. I'm fine." His smile was a little too tight, spread too thin across his face. Louis wanted to reach out and hold him; kiss away the paint he had applied to hide the twisted, thorny course that his heart took from each morning to every night, and Louis wondered if that's why he was going to sleep. Was sleep his only escape from reality, too? Did he relish long nights of rest the way that Louis did, because it meant hiding from the world that much longer?  
Harry nodded, gave a corny little salute, and was off down the hall. Louis looked up at the crystal bottle, inspecting the sparkling glass glittering in the fluorescent lighting of their- Harry's kitchen. He reached for it, but his body seemed to have a mind of its own. Instead of grabbing the neck of the bottle and drowning his pain with alcohol coursing through his veins, he closed the cabinet. He walked out of the kitchen, and padded down the hallway until he reached the last door on the left; closed and eerily quiet. When one would stand outside this doorway back when what seems like lifetimes ago was the present, laughter and giggles and sounds of pleasure would be emitted from the crack underneath the door. Now anyone who strained to listen would be suffocated with a haunting silence in a place once swimming with happiness.  
Louis leaned his forehead against the door, the wood cool under his warm skin. What was he doing? Why did he even come back? Harry could have a life- an actual prosperous life, filled with love and joy and moments of pride, but Louis took all of that away, didn't he? He replaced all of that with rage and despair and moments of weakness, because that's all he knew; all he was capable of offering was pain. An immediate effect of having Louis might've been pleasure, but it always ended in pain. Harry didn't deserve any of this, and he knew it. Why was he here?  
Because he loved Harry, and maybe that should've been the main driving factor in leaving him alone, because he deserved so much more than Louis could ever give. Louis was a dark, seemingly endless pit, filled with dry, empty space. It was a small crime to be here, and to keep coming back; ripping Harry apart after he'd stitched himself back together from the last time he bowed out. Such a small, tiny crime, but he had no excuse.  
So he pushed open the door and stepped inside. Harry was curled up on the very edge of the left side of the bed. The two of them would always sleep on their left sides, and Harry would wrap himself around Louis' smaller frame. They slotted together perfectly like shards of the same piece of broken glass. Now Harry lay on his right side, turned away from where Louis would be. It shouldn't have made Louis as nauseous as it did.  
He closed the door softly behind him, crept across the room, and with painful caution, he climbed into the right side of the queen size bed. He lay completely still for what felt to him like hours, when a soft but audible sigh came from the opposite side of the bed, where the one source of light in his life lay in the tiniest heap such a long boy could be. He looked so small, and that made Louis want to die. Harry was big and strong and always stable- not small and fragile. Louis was small, he was unstable, he was volatile, but not Harry. Harry was dependable, steady, and just. Not this.  
Louis shifted closer to Harry, and with a pang to his stomach, he fell into the imprint in the mattress where he used to sleep. There used to be two bodies here at night. Absently, he wondered if Harry always slept on the edge like that, just so he didn't have to face what used to be there, now long gone in this miserable stretch of time.  
He outstretched his arms, reaching for Harry, and pulling him into his body. When they were pressed up to one another, Louis snaked his arms around Harry's waist, pressing his lips into the knobs of his spine at the back of his neck. "I'm so sorry," he whispered into the pale skin, "so, so sorry."  
"So you're just going to kiss it all away? Like you used to? Like nothing's wrong, then?" came a quiet voice in response. It was meant to be hard and cold, but came out sounding hurt and dejected.  
"Is that alright?" Louis asked before pressing another kiss to the bone underneath skin.  
Another tiny sigh.  
"Yeah."  
He found the hand of the porcelain doll and laced his fingers through. The porcelain doll brought their intertwined hands to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to the tan skin of Louis' hand, the pulse beneath the soft pressure of the velvet lips running faster. The mouth of the doll seemed to suck the venom from his bloodstream, leaving him feeling warm, and if he wasn't mistaken, the constant emptiness inside of his heart was filled with something he hated to crave.  
"Harry?" he tugged to get him to roll over to face him. Harry simply turned his head, looking at the ceiling, but not at Louis.  
"Yeah?"  
"I don't need to be drunk to love you," he said, not sure why they were whispering. "I need to be drunk love me." Something flashed across Harry's face, but in a moment, it was gone, and he was facing away from Louis again. "That alright?"  
Tiny sigh.  
"Yeah."  
Louis kissed one knob of his spine. "I love you." He kissed another, moving down his vertebrae. "I can't stop myself from loving you," he whispered between kisses, slowly making his way down the boy's long back. "I keep trying, or at least try and not keep coming back, but you just keep reeling me back in." He got to the very bottom of his spine, then put his hand on Harry's hip, telling him to lie flat. He obliged, facing the ceiling once again. "You keep dragging me back here, and that's really stupid for you to do. You know that, don't you? Why do you keep bringing me back here, Baby? Why?" He pressed a soft trail of kisses up Harry's torso.  
"Dunno," Harry replied dumbly. Louis was now straddling him, lips reaching the bare skin between the swallows painted upon the delicate bone of his collar.  
"I do love you. Too much for my own good, I reckon," he whispered, pressing kisses to each bird.  
"D'you really think saying all this is going to change anything?" Harry asked as a line of kisses were left along the column of his throat.  
"Is that alright?" Louis asked, lips hovering mere inches above the velvet of the porcelain doll. Their eyes bore deep into one another, souls searching for their mate in the deep portals of despair painted blue and green.  
"Yeah."  
Thin pink pressed against full red, and just like every time he had Harry, everything felt okay. All of Louis' broken pieces were pulled back together by the magnetism in Harry's lips. Louis was a stained glass window, but he never glowed, because Harry wasn't around. When Harry shined through, Louis was whole, and he was okay. He was drunk off of Harry; he didn't need whiskey to take him away.  
The thing was, alcohol came with a headache, but when he was without Harry, he would crash and burn. Harry brought on a worse hangover than any drink ever could.  
"Why do you keep waiting for me, Harry?" he asked against the velvet.  
"Because I love you," he said, and Louis felt his throat begin to close.  
"Don't say that," he said quietly, slipping his tongue into Harry's mouth.  
"I'm in love with you," he mumbled, bunching up the fabric of Louis' shirt in his hands.  
"No you're not, stop saying that," he choked on a sob, and Harry stopped moving his lips, pushing him away. Louis opened his eyes, a few tears escaping when he did so. "Please don't love me, Harry," he pleaded. "I have nothing to give you."  
"Stop crying," Harry ordered bluntly, taking Louis aback. "You aren't the one who keeps letting someone in, keeps letting them fuck everything up, and keep expecting them to be there when you wake up," he said, no tears gathering in his beautiful green eyes. "I wait up for you every night, you piece of shit. Don't fucking cry- it's not your right. You-you can't just- you can't just come back when-whenever you feel like a quick shag and say all of this stupid shit that probably means nothing to you. God, it means nothing to you, doesn't it?" he wasn't whispering anymore, and his eyes were no longer dry. No tears fell, but he was crying. Louis wondered if he cried so much over him that he had used up all his tears. Louis reached out for him again, and pulled him into his chest, where he heaved dry sobs into the front of his shirt. Louis pressed his lips into Harry's satin hair, breathing in the familiar scent of his strawberry shampoo.  
"I'm sorry," he whispered into his soft curls, one arm wrapped around Harry's body, one petting his hair soothingly.  
"You're gonna leave again, aren't you?" Harry sounded so small. Louis sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and bit down hard. He hated himself that much more.  
"Is that alright?"  
Shuddering sigh.  
"No."


	2. The Postcard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's New Year's Eve. Liam wants to dance and Louis wants to die. But then..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo... just about a year and three quarters later, here i am with an update !!! it's taken me this long to write so little. i know. but this is only the beginning. it only took me so long because i couldn't tell if i wanted to give into popular vote and further prolong the torture that came with what was originally supposed to be a one shot.  
> you wanted it, so think of this as a way to bridge the gap. there's more to come, and it won't take almost two years this time.  
> hope you love it!!! and i hope you're very excited to read more :)

His hands were cold but alcohol is warm. He pondered ordering a round and setting his insides on fire, but he decided against it. He hadn't touched a drop since he came home to a naked flat those five months ago. Alcohol is warm, but at 23 he burnt the temple of his body down to the ground, his heart unrecognizable amongst the ashes.  
London was always cold but Louis found that it was so much colder when you were positively alone. No one to crawl into bed with when he fucked up, no one to make him warm in all the places no drink could, and no one to remind him not to destroy himself.  
Harry was beautiful, a fragile rose in the midst of the howling winds of early January that screamed Louis's name. He had always deserved so much more than Louis could offer him but stubbornly insisted that he didn't want more. Louis thought that what he wanted was for Harry to have someone who would treat him right, but when his lover left, sunsets only burned grey to him, lights never shined brightly enough for him to see any clearer, and London was impossibly colder. He pushed Harry away with purpose, but all he could do was wish that the doll with porcelain skin, chocolate silk hair, and red velvet lips was within his reach to pull back into his arms once again.  
The rose needed sunlight to paint his petals crimson once he finally fled from the cold, so he found himself in Los Angeles. Louis pretended that he didn't know, didn't keep tabs on the boy that wasn't his, and certainly did not scour every database and phonebook he could find for an address or extension. What he would do if he did find one, he did not know, but all he could think about was the rose growing alongside another flower in a pot that wasn't Louis's. He knew that Harry belonged in London, but how could he complain? He was the one who pushed him halfway around the globe.  
"Lou, come on! Come dance!," Liam slurred his words together, shimmying foolishly to entice his friend who sat at the bar without a drink, to the bartender's dismay.  
"I'm alright, really," Louis assured him politely, prim smile forced upon his lips and false crinkles by his eyes to insist that he was happy. Liam furrowed his brow in an over-exaggerated pout and crossed his arms over his chest.  
"It's New Year's Eve, Louis!," he announced as if the date meant anything to the small man. Louis shrugged and Liam sighed. "Look," he started, almost falling over but caught the countertop for support, "I know that you're torn up about H and I get that! I do. I ju-"  
"Liam," Louis said softly, closing his eyes in attempt to muster all of the composure he could within three seconds, "I'm alright." He opened his eyes and forced a wide smile, but Liam looked unimpressed at best. "Really."  
"You can't pretend you're okay forever, Lou," his drunken friend suddenly didn't seem so smashed as his big brown eyes zeroed in on him with such intense sympathy that his gaze burned where it made contact. Louis hated feeling pitied. His wide grin faltered into a tight-lipped excuse for a smile.  
"Well I'm not gonna live forever, am I?" he countered boldly. Liam was taken aback by his brash attitude.  
"Louis-"  
"Seriously, Li. I'm alright," he promised him, nodding stiffly to which Liam opened his mouth to protest. "I really don't want to talk about this here," he beat him to the punch, and his friend's mouth fell closed. "Go have fun, please. I don't want to ruin your New Year."  
"You're not ruining anyth-"  
"Liam," he pleaded, tears in the corners of his eyes that were once so blue but now shone grey. "Go."  
Finally, Liam obliged, retreating back to the dance floor in defeat with his tail between his legs. Louis slumped his shoulders and rest his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow on the counter.  
"Oi," someone called, but he was deep in thought, thinking of navigating through forests of green and retracing his steps in the tracks he left in the snow. "Mate," the voice came again, more sharply this time, causing Louis to snap out of his thoughts, dazed eyes meeting the annoyed brown of the bartender. "If ye wanna keep sittin' 'ere ye gotta buy somefin," he informed Louis, who suddenly felt terribly underslept.  
"I don't drink anymore," he informed the man behind the bar flatly, and the man shrugged as he wiped down a glass.  
"Sounds likes a you problem, yeah?" he replied. Louis sighed, looking up to see what they served when he saw, on the wall, a brightly colored postcard with a photograph of the main entrance of the bar on display. He pointed at it and the bartender looked over his shoulder to see what he was motioning to.  
"How much are those?" he asked, and the bartender turned back to him, clearly annoyed, but he could not deny the loophole this stubborn little man had found.  
"£1.25 each," he informed Louis reluctantly, and he nodded.  
"Well gimme one, then," he said, fishing his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, carding through it until he gathered £2. The man accepted his cash, rang him up, and returned with £.75 and a postcard. "Thanks," he said, shoving his wallet back where it came from.  
"Pleasure," the barman responded with biting sarcasm which Louis chose to ignore. He looked down then, realizing the dilemma on his hands.  
"'Scuse me?," Louis inquired, but before he could say another word, the bartender placed a pen on the counter in front of him. "Oh," Louis said in surprise, picking up the blue ballpoint pen, "thanks," but the other man was already on the other end of the bar, tending to arguably more worthy customers. Louis sighed, glaring down at the small rectangular card as if it served some offense toward him. What was he supposed to write?  
A moment after deciding that he would write the note to Jay and the girls, he realized that he couldn't remember the address. He reached into the pocket of his forest green jacket, and remembered with a groan that he had left his phone on the coffee table in his dimly lit flat on the other side of town. Wonderful.  
With no way to ask any of his family members the address, he thought harder. He could not think of his family's address, could not pinpoint what city his grandmother resided in, and was not able to recall whether Zayn's address was 5436 or 3654. His heart ceased to beat when one address rang perfectly clear in his mind.  
But who lived there now? He could not address a letter to somebody he did not know.  
Yet that's just what he did.

"Dear you,  
You don't know me, but I used to live in your flat. In that flat, I lived with a boy who was much too good for me. I reminded him of this everyday; I could never be enough, but he always assured me that I was more than he could ever hope to find. I never believed him.  
Love lived and died in that flat. I saw my last sunset from the window above the kitchen sink- I've been told that the sky still burns with reds, pinks, and golds, but since I lost him, I've only seen the world in black and white.  
This is my message to you: if you have something glorious, don't fuck it up. No matter how much you think you know what's best, you don't. I thought I was doing what was best when I pushed him away, but now he's on the other side of the world and I am only alive by definition; I know that I am decomposing from the inside out.  
If God gives you a beautiful flower bed filled with roses in full bloom, nourish them well. Do not let your acid rain contaminate them and allow them to die. Let the ivy grow and wrap around your heart, do not peel it back.  
If you have something beautiful, do not convince yourself it is ugly just because you never knew that life could truly be something so gorgeous. Allow yourself to love. I did not.  
Happy New Year,  
A stranger. x"

By the end, his handwriting scrawled up the side of the paper to fit the words that were left with no room to be inscribed at the bottom. He wiped his face and found stray tears making paths down his cheeks; he did not know when he had started crying, but he was too exhausted to make it stop. He scribbled the address on the card then dropped the pen, staring blankly at what he had written. After at least two minutes of silence surrounded by the steady thump of the music and loud buzz of voices trying to speak over the beat, he decided that this endeavor was one of failure. As he picked up the card and made the motion to tear it in half, he was stopped by a voice that he heard each night in his most lovely of dreams.  
"Hey!," the deep voice rattled him from his thoughts. Louis's heart launched into his throat and he sucked in a breath that sounded dangerously like a gasp. He snapped his head up to meet green eyes and velveteen lips that he knew tasted like home. He felt his breath knock out of him like a blow to the stomach.  
"Harry?," he choked out. Something flashed across the emeralds of the porcelain doll, but as soon as it had come it had gone, and Louis was suddenly swaying through he had not a sip of a single drink tonight. A pink tongue darted out to lick the cherry lips that made goosebumps rise on Louis's skin. A massive hand rose slowly, like moving through honey, to tap where the postcard lay on the dark mahogany countertop with two long fingers.  
"Aren't you gonna send that?"

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first oneshot that I've ever published wowowowow I'm nervous ok well I hope you liked it omg


End file.
